He said hesitantly, “Sorry, John. Not your fault.” He would not look up.
Allday replied, “Tell me if you like. One day. It’ll go no further.” He shut the door behind him and walked beneath the massive beams towards the marine sentry outside the great cabin.
Whatever it was, it was tearing Ozzard apart. Had been, since . . . ? But he could not remember.
In his pantry Ozzard sat down and rested his head in his hands. In the Golden Plover’s last moments when he had been by the companion ladder, he had seen her framed against the stern windows. He had wanted to turn away, to hide in the shadows. But he had not. He had watched her stripping off her bloodstained clothing until she had been standing completely naked with the sea’s great panorama tumbling beyond her. There had been so much salt on the glass the windows had acted as a broad mirror, so that no part of her lovely body had been denied him.
But he had not seen Catherine until she had pulled on her borrowed breeches and shirt. He had seen only his young wife, as she must have looked when her lover had visited her.
He wrung his hands in despair. Why had none of his friends or neighbours told him? He could have stopped it, made her love him again as he had always believed she had. Why? The word hung in the air like a serpent.
The way she had looked at him on that hideous day in Wapping. Surprise, contempt even, then terror when she had seen the axe in his hand.
He said brokenly, “But I loved you! Can’t you see?”
But there was no one to answer him.
Lewis Roxby dismounted heavily and patted his horse as it was led away to the stables. The air was bitterly cold, and mist hovered above the nearest hillside like smoke. He noticed that someone had been breaking the ice on the horse troughs, a sure sign of a hard winter. He saw his groom watching him, his breath steaming.
Roxby said, “Nothing moving on the estate, Tom. Can’t even get the men working repairing the walls. Slate’s frozen solid.”
The groom nodded. “One o’ the cook’s possets will set you up, sir.”
Roxby blew his nose noisily and heard the sound echo around the yard like a rebuke. “Something a mite stronger for me, Tom!”
He thought of the two thieves he had sent to the gallows a few days back. Why did they never learn? England was at war— people had little enough of their own without some oaf stealing from them. One of the thieves had burst into tears, but when Roxby had ignored it he had poured curses on him until a dragoon had dragged him away to the cells. Ordinary folk had to be protected. Some said that hanging a man never stopped crime. But it certainly stopped the criminal in question.
“Hello, who’s this then?”
Roxby came out of his thoughts and turned to look at the great gates as a lively pony and trap clattered across the cobbles.
It was Bryan Ferguson, Bolitho’s steward. A rare visitor here indeed. Roxby felt vaguely irritated; the vision of that warming glass of brandy was already receding.
Ferguson swung himself down. Few people realised he had but one arm until he faced them.
“I beg your pardon, Squire, for coming like this unannounced.”
Roxby sensed something. “Bad news? Not Sir Richard?”
“No, sir.” He glanced awkwardly at the groom. “I got a bit worried, you see.”
The glance was not lost on Roxby. “Well, you’d better come inside, man. No sense in freezing out here.”
Ferguson followed him into the great house, seeing the paintings that adorned the walls, the thick rugs, the flickering fires through every open door. A very grand house with property to match, he thought. Very fitting for the King of Cornwall.
He was very nervous again, and he tried to reassure himself that he was doing the right thing. The only thing. There was nobody else to turn to. Lady Catherine had ridden to the other side of the estate to visit an injured farm worker and his family; she must not know of this latest trouble. He glanced around at the elegant furniture, the immense painting of Roxby’s father, the old squire, who in his day had fathered quite a few children around the county. At least Roxby stayed faithful to his wife, and was more interested in chasing game than women.
Roxby reached the fire and held out his hands. “Private, is it?”
Ferguson said unhappily, “I didn’t know who else to see, sir. I couldn’t even discuss it with Grace, my wife—she’d probably not believe me anyway. She thinks nothing but good of most people.”
Roxby nodded sagely. So it was serious. Ferguson had a lot of pride, in his work and in the family he served. It had cost him a lot to come here like this.
He said magnanimously, “Glass of madeira, perhaps?”
Ferguson stared as the squire offered him a chair by the fire.
“With respect, sir, I’d relish a tot of rum.”
Roxby tugged a silk bell-cord and smiled. “I’d all but forgotten you were a sailor too, at one time.”
Ferguson did not look at the footman who entered and went like a shadow. He stared into the flames. “Twenty-five years ago, sir. I came back home after I lost a wing at the Saintes.”
Roxby handed him a large glass of rum. Even the smell made his head swim. “Don’t know how you can swallow that stuff!” He eyed him over his own goblet of brandy. The latest batch. It was sometimes better not to know where it came from, especially if you were a magistrate.
“Now tell me what this is about. If it’s advice you want—” He felt rather flattered that Ferguson had come to confide in him.
“There’s been talk, sir, gossip if you like. But it’s dangerous, more so if it reaches the wrong ears. Someone has been spreading stories about Lady Catherine, and about Sir Richard’s family. Filthy talk, damned lies!”
Roxby waited patiently. The rum was working.
Ferguson added, “I heard it from a corn chandler. He saw an argument between Captain Adam and some farmer in Bodmin. Captain Adam called him out, but the other man backed down.”
Roxby had heard a few things about the youthful Adam Bolitho. He said, “Sensible. I’d likely have done the same!”
“And then—” he hesitated, “I heard someone saying things about her ladyship—entertaining men in the house, that kind of thing.”
Roxby eyed him bleakly. “Is it true?”
Ferguson was on his feet without realising it. “It’s a bloody lie, sir.”
“Easy— I had to know. I admire her greatly. Her courage has been an example to us all, and the love she bears my brother-in-law, well—it speaks for itself.”
Like a fine English ballad, he had thought privately, but he was incapable of voicing such a sentiment, particularly to another man.
Ferguson had slumped down again, and was staring at his empty glass. He had failed. It was all going wrong. He had only made things worse by losing his self-control.
Roxby remarked, “The point, really, is that you know who’s behind all this. Am I right?”
Ferguson looked at him in despair. When I tell him, he will shut his ears to me. An outsider was different. One of the family, no matter how indirectly, was another matter.
Roxby said, “I shall find out anyway, you know. I’d prefer to hear it from you. Now.”
Ferguson met his grim stare. “It was Miles Vincent, sir. I swear it.” He was not certain how Roxby would react. Polite disbelief, or open anger in order to protect Vincent’s mother, his wife’s sister.
He was astonished when Roxby held his breath until his face reddened even more, and then exploded, “Hell’s teeth, I knew that little maggot was involved!”
Ferguson swallowed hard. “You knew, sir?”
“Had to hear it from someone I could trust.” He was working himself into a rage. “By God, after all the family has tried to do for that ungrateful baggage and her son!” He controlled himself with a real effort. “Say nothing. It is our affair, and must go no further.”
“You have my word, sir.”
Roxby eyed him thoughtfully. “Should Sir Richard ever decide to leave Fa
lmouth, I will always have a good appointment for you in my service.”
Ferguson found he could smile, albeit shakily. “I think it may be a long wait, sir.”
“Well spoken.” He gestured to the other door. “M’wife’s coming. I heard the carriage. Go now. I shall attend to this unseemly matter.”
As Ferguson reached the door he heard Roxby call after him, “Never question it. You did the right thing by coming to me.”
A few moments later Nancy entered the room, muffled to her eyes, her skin glowing from the cold.
“Whose is that nice little pony and trap, Lewis?”
“Bryan Ferguson’s, my dear. Estate business, nothing to trouble your pretty head about.” He pulled the bell-cord again and when the footman appeared he said calmly, “Find Beere, and send him to me.” He was Roxby’s head keeper, a dour, private man who lived alone in a small cottage on the edge of the estate.
As the door closed Nancy said, “What do you want him for? Such an odious man. He makes my skin creep.”
“My thoughts entirely, m’dear.” He poured another measure of brandy and thought of Ferguson’s quiet desperation. “Still, he has his uses.”
It was pitch dark when Ferguson’s smart little trap reached the Stag’s Head at Fallowfield. After the coast road, and the knifeedged wind off the bay, the parlour offered a welcome so warm that he could barely wait to throw off his heavy coat.
The place was empty but for an old man dozing by the fire, with a tankard on a stool beside him. At his feet a black and white sheepdog lay quite motionless. Only the dog’s eyes moved as they followed Ferguson across the flagged floor. Then they closed.
She came in from the kitchen and gave him a friendly smile. Allday was right; she was a trim little craft, and more in command since Ferguson had last seen her, when he had briefly introduced himself.
“Quiet tonight, Mr Ferguson. Something hot, or something strong?”
He smiled. He could not get Roxby out of his thoughts. How would he deal with it? Vincent’s mother lived in one of his houses; Roxby might add fuel to the fire by dragging her into it. Rumour had it that she was friendly with Bolitho’s wife; that might also ensure that the scandal would not die so quickly. Allday had told him about the son, and his short career as a midshipman. A real little tyrant, and cruel too.
She said, “You’re miles away.”
He tried to relax. He had wanted to get out, hide from the estate and the familiar faces who relied on him. He had met Lady Catherine after her visit to the injured worker, and during a general conversation she had mentioned Captain Adam. Just for an instant he had imagined she had heard about the incident in Bodmin. But how could she?
Instead, Catherine had asked if Adam had visited the house frequently during their absence. He had told her the truth, and why not? He was seeing too many devils when there were none.
He said, “Some of your pie, and a tankard of ale, if you please.”
He watched her bustling about and wondered if Allday would ever settle down. Then he saw the carved ship model in the adjoining room: Allday’s Hyperion. Then it must be serious. It made him strangely glad.
She put the tankard down on his table. “Aye, ’tis quiet, right enough.” She shifted uneasily. “Did hear there’s some sort of meeting going on.”
Ferguson nodded. Probably a cock-fight, something he hated. But many enjoyed it, and large bets changed hands in the course of an evening’s sport.
Ferguson turned and looked at the dog. It was no longer asleep but staring fixedly at the door, its teeth bared in a small, menacing growl.
Unis Polin said, “Foxes, maybe.”
But Ferguson was on his feet, his heart suddenly pounding like a hammer.
“What is it?”
Ferguson clutched the table as if to prevent himself falling. It was all there, coming back: the moment when he had heard the feet. Except that it was no longer a brutal memory. It was now.
The old man reached down and touched his dog’s fur, quietening him.
He croaked, “There be a King’s ship in Carrick Road.”
The feet drew closer, marching and dragging.
Ferguson stared around as if he were trapped.
“My God, it’s the press.”
He wanted to run. Get away. Go back to Grace and the life he had come to value and enjoy.
The door banged open and a tall sea officer loomed out of the darkness, his body shrouded in a long boat-cloak glittering with drops of sleet or snow.
He saw the woman by the table and removed his hat with a flourish. For one so young, in his mid-twenties at a guess, his hair was streaked with grey.
“I beg pardon at this intrusion, ma’am.” His eyes moved quickly around the parlour, missing nothing. The comely woman, the one-armed man, the dog by the fire which was still glaring at him, and finally the old farmer. Nothing.
Unis Polin said, “There’s nobody here, sir.”
Ferguson sat down again. “She’s right.” He hesitated. “What ship?”
The other gave a bitter laugh. “She’s the Ipswich, 38. ” He threw back his cloak, to reveal an empty sleeve pinned to his lieutenant’s coat. “It seems we’ve both been in the wars. But there’s no ship for me, my friend—just this stinking work, hunting men who will not serve their King!”
To the woman he added more calmly, “There is a place near here called Rose Barn, I believe?”
The old man leaned forward. “Tes ’bout a mile further on this road.”
The lieutenant replaced his hat and as he opened the door Ferguson saw lanterns shining on uniforms and weapons. Over his shoulder he said, “It would be unwise to raise a warning.” He gave a tired smile. “But of course you know not what we are about, eh?”
The door closed, and all at once the silence was around them, like something physical.
Ferguson watched as she removed the pie from the table and replaced it with a piece that was piping-hot.
He said, “The press-gang must be heading for the fight you mentioned.”
The old farmer cackled. “They’ll get naught there, me dear. Men with protection, and soldiers from the garrison.”
Ferguson stared at him, his spine like ice. So this was Roxby’s way. He would know all the officers of the dreaded press, and the times and locations of cock-fights and other sport. He suddenly felt quite sick. They might catch a few, despite what the old farmer had said, just as they had taken him and Allday when the Phalarope had put a press-gang ashore. One thing was quite certain in his mind. Miles Vincent would be one of them.
“I must leave. I—I’m sorry about the pie . . .”
She watched him anxiously. “Another time then. I want you to tell me all about John Allday.”
The mention of the big man’s name seemed to strengthen him. He sat down again at the table and picked up a fork. He would stay, after all.
He glanced at the dog, but it was fast asleep. Outside the door there was only stillness.
He thought with sudden anger, And why not? We protect our own and those we love. Or we go down with the ship.
What else could he have done?
By morning it was snowing, and when Lewis Roxby walked into his stable yard he saw his head keeper, Beere, pause just long enough to give him a nod before he was swallowed up in a gust of swirling snow.
The frigate Ipswich had sailed before dawn, as was the navy’s way, and it was a long time before anyone realised that Miles Vincent’s bed had not been slept in.
15 FROM THE DEAD
LIEUTENANT Stephen Jenour handed his hat to Ozzard and then strode aft to the broad day-cabin where Bolitho was seated at a small table. The Black Prince was in the process of changing tack yet again, and as the sun moved slowly across the stern windows Jenour felt its heat through the smeared glass like an opening oven door.
Bolitho glanced up from his letter to Catherine. He had forgotten how many pages he had written so far, but it never seemed difficult to confide in her even when the d
istance between them mounted with each turn of the glass.
Jenour said, “Captain Keen’s respects, Sir Richard, and he wishes to inform you that Antigua is in sight to the south-west’rd.”
Bolitho laid down his pen. Seven weeks to cross an ocean and find their way to the Caribbean’s Leeward Islands. It was ironic that his old Hyperion had done the same passage in a month, and at exactly this time of year. Keen must be both relieved to have made the landfall and disappointed at the time taken, and the many shortcomings which had presented themselves in the ship’s company.
Perhaps the deceptive calm of bright sunshine and warmth on their hard-worked bodies might make amends. The Atlantic had been at its worst, at least in Bolitho’s experience, producing great surging gales, while men half-frozen on the yards fisted and fought icy canvas until their hands were torn and raw. The high winds had been perverse too, and the ship had been driven a hundred miles off-course when the wind direction had veered so suddenly that even Julyan the master had been astonished.
Gun drill had been out of the question for the latter part of their passage. It was all Keen could do to get his men fed and rested before the Western Ocean again released its ferocity.
It said much for Keen’s example and that of his more seasoned hands that they had not lost a spar or another man overboard.
“I’ll go up, Stephen.” He glanced at his unfinished letter, seeing Falmouth as it would be now. Much like the Atlantic: gales, rain and perhaps snow.
Catherine would be thinking of the ship, wondering where she was, if she had arrived safely. When she might be called to action. So many questions which only time could answer.
Jenour looked around the great cabin, a place he had come to know so well. During the passage from England he had been able to put the prospect of leaving Bolitho to one side. The gales, the deafening roar of the sea thundering over the hull and upper deck to make every footstep a separate hazard, and the gaunt faces of the people while they were chased and bullied from one task to the next, kept such thoughts at bay. Now it was different. Out there beyond the tapering jib-boom was English Harbour: order and authority, where each day might offer him the challenge of promotion. He thought of the first lieutenant, Sedgemore, some of the others too; they would give their blood for such an opportunity. A small command, with the blessing of a famous flag officer—who could wish for more? He had heard Bolitho refer to it as the most coveted gift.
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